


Funny How it Shatters

by stardropdream (orphan_account)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 07:36:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/695829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You don't want to pull that trigger." It was the shot heard 'round the world, the start of the end of a beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Funny How it Shatters

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ April 29, 2010. 
> 
> So this was originally going to be part of a longer story I ended up scrapping. This scene has been sitting and rotting on my hard drive for about... a year? So I figured I'd put it out of its misery and just post it. 
> 
> Warning for possible history fail.

  
The sun was just starting to come up. It burned his eyes until they almost watered, but he had to hold firm. His hand gripped his musket tightly, steadying his hands to keep them from betraying anything he may be feeling at that moment. He couldn’t let himself think, he didn’t’ want to let himself think. He just wanted it to end, to let it go back to how it was or to let it move forward, or something—anything, anything but this stasis. The sun was coming up, and it was a mild April day, but there was nothing that could be found pleasurable about the day. If he focused on the sun for too long, he felt that his eyes would water—and he would refuse to let his eyes water at a time like this.  
  
America and England stood facing one another. The redcoats quickly outnumbered the minutemen, but there were no words passed between them, aside from the rising murmurs between the soldiers, the militiamen, and the spectators who’d gathered on the road and behind bushes to watch this rising tension. The din fluxed and flowed around them, but neither could make out distinct words passing between the men and the captains. England and America’s eyes were solely on one another.  
  
England refused to think of how it felt to have America pointing his musket at his chest—the same musket he’d given him to teach him how to shoot years ago—and tried to simply focus on business. He refused to look at the way America had grown, taller even now since he’d last seen him weeks ago. He refused to notice the arch of his back, the bow of his head as he glared at England, only England. He looked into his eyes but refused to see what the boy was silently screaming at him. He refused, he refused, he refused.  
  
“Lay down your arms,” England commanded, the words he wanted to say stuck to the walls of his throat.  
  
“You lay yours down first,” America said, face closed off and eyes narrowed.  
  
They lapsed into a stilted silence, America glaring at England and England trying to maintain the calm. The voices around him were rising and with it the tension—he couldn’t let this escalate further. His rebellious little colony had caught wind of the plans and it had come to this. And how it’d all become like this was almost too much—he looked at the young man glaring at him and could only think of the little boy begging him not to leave. But England always left—and now it was America trying to leave. Distantly, belatedly, England understood why America had always held on so tightly to his coat, trying to keep him from leaving. He understood now, but he would succeed where America had not. He would not let the boy get away.  
  
England shifted and America stiffened, steadying the musket straight at England. England regarded it coolly, refusing to let his face show the way his blood ran cold as well. He refused to focus on it—no, no he couldn’t—and shifted his gaze up to America. But that was somehow far worse—the coldness with which the boy held the gun contesting the fired, angered look burning across his face.  
  
England made himself look at the gun again.  
  
“You don’t want to pull that trigger.”  
  
“Don’t act like you have any idea what the hell I want!” America shouted, defensive to a fault.  
  
England stared at the gun as he spoke, unable or unwilling to look the boy in the eyes again—not to see those angered eyes and want to smash the boy to the ground. _How dare you look at me like that after everything I’ve done for you…_  
  
“I know you, America. I know you don’t want to pull that trigger.” _Because I don’t want to pull it, either,_ he wanted to say but didn’t.  
  
“You don’t know me,” America snapped back. Then added, quietly, “Not anymore.”  
  
England couldn’t think of a comeback fast enough and just glared at the boy, who graciously glared back. England knew his hands wanted to shake, but he held firm, kept his musket poised. The words struck something inside him he refused to acknowledge, and he substituted the potential pain of the boy’s refusal with justified anger.  
  
“You’re outnumbered, America,” England said calmly. “You shouldn’t want to risk it like that.”  
  
“I know that,” America demanded. “Shut u—”  
  
“You’ll find you cannot tell me what to do, America,” England interrupted, and America swallowed his command, the anger reigniting in his eyes. This time, though, his hands were shaking as they pointed at England and England allowed himself that silent, secret victory as he kept his musket steady and firm. America’s gun wavered for half a moment as he stared straight at his caretaker, and licked his wind-chapped lips.  
  
He began, his words louder now, rising to accommodate the growing noise surrounding them among England’s soldiers and America’s militia. “Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just—”  
  
England interrupted, feeling the spark of anger rekindle in the pit of his belly as he stared at his young charge. “To teach you a lesson, about respecting those that own you and—”  
  
“You don’t own me,” the boy shouted, and his shaking hands seemed to steady, the musket pointed squarely at England’s chest now. “I don’t need you—I don’t want you.”  
  
There was no immediate reaction to America’s words—the first time he’d said it so directly and to England’s face—but England felt the shift in his gut, felt the lick of anger curl disproportionally in his chest and squeeze his heart. He ignored it. He could not afford to not ignore it. His eyes narrowed.  
  
“You think you can so easily do this, America? It’s rather amusing, really, to see you act this way—always like a petulant child. I should have done more to discipline you as a child.”  
  
“You weren’t here to discipline.”  
  
“A mistake, perhaps,” England said, his words soft but sharp as a sword’s blade. “I hadn’t expected disloyalty such as this.”  
  
America didn’t answer, but the words obviously struck a chord—the boy was still too expressive, too honest in his eyes, England thought. America’s face twitched, his shoulders tensed. The hands began to shake again and England took a step forward. But that seemed to snap America out of his short daze because his eyebrows slanted downwards and he pointed his musket once again, higher this time, focusing more on England’s shoulder—no longer pointed at his chest, at his heart.  
  
England watched him over the barrel of the gun, green eyes steadily meeting cold blue eyes. They stayed like that, watching one another. England’s grip on his own gun did not waver.  
  
“You don’t want to pull that trigger.”  
  
“Stop it,” America commanded.  
  
But England gave him a smile, low and without warmth. He blinked a few times, to keep the sun away from his eyes. When America lifted his gaze, his entire face rippled and dissolved into a stark scowl upon seeing England’s smile.  
  
He didn’t want to shoot. He didn’t want to kill, that hadn’t been his intention at all. All he wanted… all he ever wanted—  
  
“If you mean to have war,” he whispered, trying to steady his hands as he held the gun pointed towards his former caretaker. “Let it begin here. England.”  
  
“You’re outmatched,” England reminded, but the smile was tense.  
  
“We’ll stand our ground—we won’t fire unless we’re fired upon,” America said back, eyes narrowed, glaring at England, because it was easier to glare—so much easier to just—  
  
“Lay down your arms, America,” England commanded.  
  
“You can’t tell me what to do, either, England. Not anymore. Never again.”  
  
“I’ll make you—”  
  
“Shoot me,” America barked. “I dare you. Shoot me, England.”  
  
“You—I’ll—”  
  
“Or maybe I’ll shoot you,” America said, louder, his throat constricting against the roar and murmurs of the people around them. The sun was in his eyes and he blinked, trying to steady his shoulders. His throat felt too dry and he glared—glared, because that’s all he could do, all he knew how to do. There were so many things he could say, what he wanted to say—so that he could see—  
  
“You don’t want to,” England said, but it was too late—the confidence had wavered, and America could hear the anger and betrayal in his voice. It was better this way, better.  
  
“Stop talking as if you know—”  
  
“I know,” England said. “America—”  
  
There was something in his voice, something that America did not want to hear.  
  
“I…”  
  
They lapsed, once again, into a tensed silence. There was a moment, a brief moment, when the glare slipped off America’s face and he just stared at England. The smile—so disingenuous, so forced—fell from England’s face and for a brief, brief moment, they were looking at one another with honest expressions. Sad, sad eyes. But it was only a brief moment, only the softest of breaths that passed between them, the tiniest exhale, words in their eyes that the other couldn’t or wouldn’t read.  
  
“I…” America began again.  
  
The din around them was quickly moving to a roar—both sides shouting, the horses moving, the observers from the road murmuring to themselves. The sun was rising in the sky, almost blinding.  
  
They couldn’t make out the voices around them—only could see. See the captains moving forward, the waving of swords, the stiff stances of the soldiers holding their muskets.  
  
 _“Disperse!”_  
  
 _“Lay down your arms, you damned rebels!”_  
  
 _“You—”_  
  
 _“How—”_  
  
The shot rang out, shattering the crux of the voices shouting, raspy, lost in the chorus of voices. That shot was enough to rattle the senses, leave the confusion and the uncertainty and everything behind. Simultaneously, both America and England moved their gazes away from one another, watching the scene erupt before them—where had that shot come from?  
  
The shouting was unbearable now, and shots rang out, the connection to bodies, the falling to the earth, the blinding, blinding presence of the sun—  
  
Something shattered.  
  
When England turned back towards America, the boy was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is what happens when I watch Schoolhouse Rock.
> 
> \- Battle of Lexington and Concord was the start of the American Revolution. No one knows for sure who was the first open fire that April morning.


End file.
